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THE MORNING COMES BEFORE THE SUN

 
  Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose
    From out night's gray and cloudy sheath;
  Softly and still it grows and grows,
    Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;
  Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaks
    Its dreamy fetters, one by one,
  And love awakes, and labor wakes,—
    The morning comes before the sun.
 
 
  What is this message from the light
    So fairer far than light can be?
  Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,
   In haste the risen sun to see;
  Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,
   Count the charmed moments as they run,
  It is life's best and fairest part,
   This morning hour before the sun.
 
 
  When once thy day shall burst to flower,
    When once the sun shall climb the sky,
  And busy hour by busy hour,
    The urgent noontide draws anigh;
  When the long shadows creep abreast,
    To dim the happy task half done,
  Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,
   This morning hush before the sun.
 
 
  To each, one dawning and one dew,
    One fresh young hour is given by fate,
  One rose flush on the early blue.
    Be not impatient then, but wait!
  Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,
    By midnight angels woven and spun;
  Better than day its prophecy,—
    The morning comes before the sun.
 

LABORARE EST ORARE

"Although St. Franceses was unwearied in her devotions, yet if, during her prayers, she was called away by her husband or any domestic duty, she would close the book cheerfully, saying that a wife and a mother, when called upon, must quit her God at the alter to find Him in her domestic affairs."—Legends of the Monastic Orders.

 
  How infinite and sweet, Thou everywhere
    And all abounding Love, Thy service is!
  Thou liest an ocean round my world of care,
  My petty every-day; and fresh and fair,
    Pour Thy strong tides through all my crevices,
  Until the silence ripples into prayer.
 
 
  That Thy full glory may abound, increase,
    And so Thy likeness shall be formed in me,
  I pray; the answer is not rest or peace,
  But charges, duties, wants, anxieties,
    Till there seems room for everything but Thee,
  And never time for anything but these.
 
 
  And I should fear, but lo! amid the press,
    The whirl and hum and pressure of my day,
  I hear Thy garment's sweep, Thy seamless dress,
  And close beside my work and weariness
    Discern Thy gracious form, not far away,
  But very near, O Lord, to help and bless.
 
 
  The busy fingers fly, the eyes may see
    Only the glancing needle which they hold,
  But all my life it, blossoming inwardly,
  And every breath is like a litany,
    While through each labor, like a thread of gold,
  Is woven the sweet consciousness of Thee.
 

EIGHTEEN

 
  Ah! grown a dim and fairy shade,
    Dear child, who, fifteen years ago,
      Out of our arms escaped and fled
  With swift white feet, as if afraid,
    To hide beneath the grass, the snow,
      that sunny little head.
 
 
  This is your birthday! Fair, so fair,
    And grown to gracious maiden-height,
      And versed in heavenly lore and ways;
  White-vested as the angels are,
    In very light of very light,
      Somehow, somewhere, you keep the day
 
 
  With those new friends, whom "new" we call,
    But who are dearer now than we,
      And better known by fate and name:
  And do they smile and say, "How tall
    The child becomes, how radiant, she
      Who was so little when she came!"
 
 
  Darling, we count your eighteen years,—
    Fifteen in Heaven, on earth but three,—
      And try to frame you grown and wise:
  But all in vain; there still appears
    Only the child you used to be,
      Our baby with the violet eyes.
 

OUTWARD BOUND,

 
  A grievous day of wrathful winds,
    Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly,
  And drop cold rains, then lift and show
    A sullen realm of upper sky.
 
 
  The sea is black as night; it roars
    From lips afoam with cruel spray,
  Like some fierce, many-throated pack
    Of wolves, which scents and chases prey.
 
 
  Crouched in my little wind-swept nook,
    I hear the menacing voices call,
  And shudder, as above the deck
    Topples and swings the weltering wall.
 
 
  It seems a vast and restless grave,
    Insatiate, hungry, beckoning
  With dreadful gesture of command
    To every free and living thing.
 
 
  "O Lord," I cry, "Thou makest life
    And hope and all sweet things to be;
  Rebuke this hovering, following Death,—
    This horror never born of Thee."
 
 
  A sudden gleam, the waves light up
    With radiant momentary hues,—
  Amber and shadowy pearl and gold,
    Opal and green and unknown blues,—
 
 
  And, rising on the tossing walls,
    Within the foaming valleys swung,
  Soft shapes of sea-birds, dimly seen,
    Flutter and float and call their young,
 
 
  A moment; then the lowering clouds
    Settle anew above the main,
  The colors die, the waves rise higher,
    And night and terror rule again.
 
 
  No more I see the small, dim shapes,
    So unafraid of wind and wave,
  Nestling beneath the tempest's roar,
    Cradled in what I deemed a grave.
 
 
  But all night long I lay and smiled
    At thought of those soft folded wings,
  And trusting, with the trustful birds,
    In Him who cares for smallest things.
 

FROM EAST TO WEST

 
  The boat cast loose her moorings;
    "Good-by" was all we said.
  "Good-by, Old World," we said with a smile,
    And never looked back as we sped,
  A shining wake of foam behind,
    To the heart of the sunset red.
 
 
  Heavily drove our plunging keel
    The warring waves between;
  Heavily strove we night and day,
    Against the west-wind keen,
  Bent, like a foe, to bar our path,—
    A foe with an awful mien.
 
 
  Never a token met our eyes
    From the dear land far away;
  No storm-swept bird, no drifting branch,
    To tell us where it lay.
  Wearily searched we, hour by hour,
    Through the mist and the driving spray,
 
 
  Till, all in a flashing moment,
    The fog-veils rent and flew,
  And a blithesome south-wind caught the sails
    And whistled the cordage through,
  And the stars swung low their silver lamps
    In a dome of airy blue,
 
 
  And, breathed from unseen distances,
    A new and joyous air
  Caressed our senses suddenly
    With a rapture fresh and rare.
  "It is the breath of home!" we cried;
    "We feel that we are there."
 
 
  O Land whose tent-roof is the dome
    Of Heaven's, purest sky,
  Whose mighty heart inspires the wind
    Of glad, strong liberty,
  Standing upon thy sunset shore,
    Beside the waters high,
 
 
  Long may thy rosy smile be bright;
    Above the ocean din
  Thy young, undaunted voice be heard,
    Calling the whole world kin;
  And ever be thy arms held out
    To take the storm-tossed in!
 

UNA

 
  My darling once lived by my side,
    She scarcely ever went away;
    We shared our studies and our play,
  Nor did she care to walk or ride
    Unless I did the same that day.
 
 
  Now she is gone to some far place;
    I never see her any more,
    The pleasant play-times all are o'er;
  I come from school, there is no face
    To greet me at the open door.
 
 
  At first I cried all day, all night;
    I could not bear to eat or smile,
    I missed her, missed her, all the while
  The brightest day did not look bright,
    The shortest walk was like a mile.
 
 
  Then some one came and told me this:
    "Your playmate is but gone from view,
    Close by your side she stands, and you
  Can almost hear her breathe, and kiss
    Her soft cheek as you used to do.
 
 
  "Only a little veil between,—
    A slight, thin veil; if you could see
    Past its gray folds, there she would be,
  Smiling and sweet, and she would lean
    And stretch her hands out joyfully.
 
 
  "All the day long, and year by year,
    She will go forward as you go;
    As you grow older, she will grow;
  As you grow good, she with her clear
    And angel eyes, will mark and know.
 
 
  "Think, when you wake up every day,
    That she is standing by your bed,
    Close to the pillow where her head,
  Her little curly head, once lay,
    With a 'Good-morning' smiled, not said.
 
 
  "Think, when the hooks seem dull and tame,
    The sports no longer what they were,
    That there she sits, a shape of air,
  And turns the leaf or joins the game
    With the same smile she used to wear.
 
 
  "So, moving on still, hand in hand,
    One of these days your eyes will clear,
    The hiding veil will disappear,
  And you will know and understand
    Just why your playmate left you here."
 
 
  This made me happier, and I try
    To think each day that it may be.
    Sometimes I do so easily;
  But then again I have to cry,
    Because I want so much to SEE!
 

TWO WAYS TO LOVE

"Entre deux amants il y a toujours l'an qui baise et l'autre qui tend la joue."

 
  I says he loves me well, and I
    Believe it; in my hands, to make
  Or mar, his life lies utterly,
  Nor can I the strong plea deny.
    Which claims my love for his love's sake.
 
 
  He says there is no face so fair
    As mine; when I draw near, his eyes
  Light up; each ripple of my hair
  He loves; the very clunk I wear
    He touches fondly where it lies.
 
 
  And roses, roses all the way,
    Upon my path fall, strewed by him;
  His tenderness by night, by day,
  Keeps faithful watch to heap alway
    My cup of pleasure to the brim.
 
 
  The other women, full of spite,
    Count me the happiest woman born
  To be so worshipped; I delight
  To flaunt his homage in their sight,—
    For me the rose, for them its thorn.
 
 
  I love him—or I think I do;
    Sure one MUST love what is so sweet.
  He is all tender and all true,
  All eloquent to plead and sue,
    All strength—though kneeling at my feet.
 
 
  Yet I had visions once of yore,
    Girlish imaginings of a zest,
  A possible thrill,—but why run o'er
  These fancies?—idle dreams, no more;
    I will forget them, this is best.
 
 
  So let him take,—the past is past;
    The future, with its golden key,
  Into his outstretched hands I cast.
  I shall love him—perhaps—at last,
    As now I love his love for me.
 

II

 
  Nor as all other women may,
    Love I my Love; he is so great,
  So beautiful, I dare essay
  No nearness but in silence lay
    My heart upon his path,—and wait.
 
 
  Poor heart! its healings are so low
    He does not heed them passing by,
  Save as one heeds, where violets grow,
  A fragrance, caring not to know
    Where the veiled purple buds may lie.
 
 
  I sometimes think that it is dead,
    It lies so still. I bend and lean,
  Like mother over cradle-head,
  Wondering if still faint breaths are shed
    Like sighs the parted lips between.
 
 
  And then, with vivid pulse and thrill,
    It quickens into sudden bliss
  At sound of step or voice, nor will
  Be hushed, although, regardless still,
    He knows not, cares not, it is his.
 
 
  I would not lift it if I could;
    The little flame, though faint and dim
  As glow-worm spark in lonely wood,
  Shining where no man calls it good,
    May one day light the path for him,—
 
 
  May guide his way, or soon or late,
    Through blinding mist or wintry rain;
  And, so content, I watch and wait.
  Let others share his happier fate,
    I only ask to share his pain!
 
 
  And if some day, when passing by,
    My dear Love should his steps arrest,
  Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh,
  Should know it his, should lift it,—why,
    Patience is good, but joy is best!
 

AFTER-GLOW

 
  My morn was all dewy rose and pearl,
    Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant air
    Caressed my going forth, and everywhere
  The radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun,
        Stretched shining in the sun.
 
 
  Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,—
    No wind to visit the dew-thirsty flowers,
    Only the dust, the road, the urging hours;
  And, pressing on, I never guessed or knew
        That day was half-way through.
 
 
  And when the pomp of purple lit the sky,
    And sheaves of golden lances tipped with red
    Danced in the west, wondering I gazed, and said,
  "Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to crown!"
        Sudden the sun dropped down
 
 
  Like a great golden ball into the sea,
    Which made room, laughing, and the serried rank
    Of yellow lances flashed, and, turning, sank
  After their chieftain, as he led the way,
        And all the heaven was gray.
 
 
  Startled and pale, I stood to see them go;
    Then a long, stealing shadow to me crept,
    And laid his cold hand on me, and I wept
  And hid my eyes, and shivered with affright
        At thought of coming night.
 
 
  But as I wept and shuddered, a warm thrill
    Smote on my sense. I raised my eyes, and lo!
    The skies, so dim but now, were all aglow
  With a new flush of tender rose and gold,
        Opening fold on fold.
 
 
  Higher and higher soared the gracious beam,
    Deeper and deeper glowed the heavenly hues,
    Nor any cowering shadow could refuse
  The beautiful embrace which clasped and kissed
        Its dun to amethyst.
 
 
  A little longer, and the lovely light,
    Draining the last drops from its wondrous urn,
    Departed, and the swart shades in their turn,
  Impatient of the momentary mirth,
        Crowded to seize the earth.
 
 
  No longer do I shudder. With calm eye
    I front the night, nor wish its hours away;
    For in that message from my banished day
  I read his pledge of dawn, and soon or late
        I can endure to wait.
 

HOPE AND I

 
  Hope stood one morning by the way,
      And stretched her fair right hand to me,
    And softly whispered, "For this day
  I'll company with thee."
 
 
  "Ah, no, dear Hope," I sighing said;
    "Oft have you joined me in the morn,
  But when the evening came, you fled
    And left me all forlorn.
 
 
  "'Tis better I should walk alone
    Than have your company awhile,
  And then to lose it, and go on
    For weary mile on mile,"
 
 
  She turned, rebuked. I went my way,
    But sad the sunshine seemed, and chill;
  I missed her, missed her all the day,
    And O, I miss her still.
 

LEFT BEHIND

 
  We started in the morning, a morning full of glee,
    All in the early morning, a goodly company;
  And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear:
    But the others have pursued their way, and left me sitting here.
 
 
  My feet were not so fleet as theirs, my courage soon was gone,
    And so I lagged and fell behind, although they cried "Come on!"
  They cheered me and they pitied me, but one by one went by,
    For the stronger must outstrip the weak; there is no remedy.
 
 
  Some never looked behind, but smiled, and swiftly, hand in hand,
    Departed with, a strange sweet joy I could not understand;
  I know not by what silver streams their roses bud and blow,
    Rut I am glad—O very glad—they should be happy so.
 
 
  And some they went companionless, yet not alone, it seemed;
    For there were sounds of rustling wings, and songs,—or else we
    dreamed;
  And a glow from lights invisible to us lit up the place,
    And tinged, as if with glory, each dear and parting face.
 
 
  So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went,
    That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content;
  And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone,
    Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own.
 
 
  My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away,
    And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay;
  For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know,
    This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also.
 
 
  There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear,
    The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear:
  I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new,
    But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew.
 
 
  So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day,
    My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away,
  I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resigned
    To sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind.